


Faith

by FallingForKonoha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Johnlock, Friends to Lovers, M/M, So much angst, angst angst angst, no but seriously there will be angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingForKonoha/pseuds/FallingForKonoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was once a broken man, held together by tape and glue</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Why today?” Her voice broke through the air of silence, so suddenly his heart dropped in response

Tick…  
Tick…

“Do you want to hear me say it?” he responded, his voice harsher than usual. Another breath forced into his lungs, he tried to calm himself

 

Tick…  
Tick…

 

“18 months since our last appointment” she continued

“Do you read the papers?” He asked, ignoring her comment

“Sometimes”

“And you watch Telly…you know why I’m here…” he said evenly, working to keep his tone steady

“I’m here because…” it broke just then, sentence trailing off with a whispered breath, eyes no longer able to hold hers, he turned his head away to watch the water droplets caress  
their way down the window, craving a path through the fog building

“What happened, John?” She pushed, unfolding her legs and moving to the edge of her seat

Silence

 

Tick…  
Tick…

 

Each movement of the hand of the clock beat a gentle rhythm, complete opposite of the uneven fidgeting of his fingers as they drummed their own uneven rhythm on his left leg  
He took deep breathes, trying to keep the grief buried, refusing to let any of it show now, to expose himself in front of his therapist was a fate worse than death, in his eyes.

No, he’d never admit just how broken this made him

“Sher…” He stopped, clearing his throat, trying to force on without breaking out into tears

“You need to get it out” she said softly, her tone full of sympathy

_Pity…_ He thought bitterly 

“My best friend…” He started again, taking another breath, blinking back the forming moisture in his eyes “…. Sherlock Holmes…” the name left a bitter taste in his mouth, rolling off his tongue like a razor cutting skin, his heart picking up it’s beat  
“Is dead…” He finished his sentence, hanging it like a loose thread in the air

It hung, drowned out in the sound of falling rain, his mind wandered away

 

“Say it” she spoke

He flinched

“Say what?”

“You know”

Tick…  
Tick… 

Tap  
Tap

 

“I can’t…” he whispered, darting his eyes off 

“John…”

“I think we’re done here”

He stood, his hand grabbing his cane roughly from the side of the chair, gripping the handle with purpose as he wobbled away

 

Tick…  
Tick…

 

Silence


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts

Wake up  
Eat  
Work  
Pub  
Drink  
Home  
Sleep  
Repeat

His life become a routine, never skipped a step, and never added one

The solider in him had taken over, and he lived each day as he had in battle. Just trying to survive long enough to wake up the next day

He didn’t talk to any of his old friends, ignored the constant calls and messages left in the dozens. He didn’t write, hardly spoke, just went through the motions

Some days were harder than others, when his memory haunted more than usual. He could almost see the detective, standing there, with his tailored suit and his bored expression

‘Come John! A case!’ he would yell, with his face lit up by his mobile screen, a grin breaking out in excitement as he’d turn and run out the door, leaving John to follow after his coat flaps

His voice would whisper in his ear, random personal facts about the people surrounding him, comments that were completely unnecessary that would’ve make John giggle hysterically had he not been on the verge of tears

His subconscious played a very good Sherlock. His deductions were almost on point. Almost perfect

But not perfect enough

John knew he was obsessed, but fuck, he just couldn’t bring himself to care

There was only one person whose opinion truly mattered, and that person was dead. So if he had to become insane to deal with that, then so be it

Sherlock would expect nothing less, the smug bastard, he probably would’ve guessed this would happen when he jumped from the roof

He would never really die, because he knew John would keep him alive any way he could

Yes, some days were worse than others, were the call of his sig was stronger than necessary, like a siren singing her tune, whispering oh so softly that her barrel tasted of milk and honey, and with just a twist of his finger, the detective would be within reach again, he’d see him, those cheekbones highlighted by whatever sky would be above them, his black brown curls blowing wildly as he ran, of course, John would follow, because he would be able to, the damn limp would be gone, his tremble, gone, because they were diseases of his shattered mind that only Sherlock could fix.

Because he was his cure.

Each and every time, however, he was snapped out of his thoughts, his own delusions actually shaming him

Sherlock was there, in his flat, rattling off words like ‘cowardly’ and ‘dull’. Telling him to just hold on, his body would drop by itself soon enough. He didn’t need to rush the process. 

Like he was one to talk. He was first to jump, what was his place to tell John he couldn’t do that same?

Instead of just pulling the trigger the way he was oh so tempted to, he picked up other nasty habits

A pack a day keeps the stress away, and a bottle of vodka for the thoughts that lingered.

With how Harry and his father were, John had sworn off alcohol, sure a pint here and there wasn’t harmful, but he never drank for the sake of drinking. Now of course, was a different story. He didn’t think he could make it through a day without some liquid courage pumping through his veins, a flask hidden under his wool jumper was proof.  
And to make matters worse, he even adopted the very habit he’d ridiculed Sherlock for. He couldn’t count how many ‘breaks’ he took from the surgery to sneak out the back door and light one up where no one could see. Sure, he smelled like a goddamn chimney when he was done, but his delusion seemed fond enough of the smell. If the actual detective were there, he’d probably compliment John on it, telling him he smelled heavenly, and would shamelessly burry his nose in the doctor’s personal space to inhale as deeply as possible, as if it was a completely normal thing for a flatmate to do

John almost laughed at that.

Oh, if Sherlock were still there, he’d let the bastard have all the smokes in the world

If that would keep him from jumping, he’d even allow him his drug of choice. Hell, he’d fucking buy it for him

If it had made it easier, if it reduced his stress enough to keep him from that godforsaken rooftop, he’d deal with it all

He cursed himself softly under his breath. Really? What stage of grief was he at by now? 

Bargaining should’ve passed ages ago. Now he was in depression. Or acceptance. After all, now when he visited his grave, he never begged him to still be alive, he’d just stand there, staring at the black stone like it held all the answers to the world, he’d spend hours on end tracing over the words engraved with his eyes, until their lids felt heavy and his tongue felt dry. He’d then drag himself into the nearest pub and drink away whatever thoughts he had left

This was his life

The madman had come in, moved everything around, and turned his world on its head, then jumped right out. Leaving John trying so desperately to scrap together the pieces of his broken life, his shattered heart, but the tape wouldn’t hold, and pieces were still off bloody knows where. So he was left, cracked, and damaged, and wanting to just dig a hole next to Sherlock’s and lay claim in it

The detective had effectively ended two lives that day. Whether or not it was his intention didn’t matter

John would never be the same. 

 

‘I’m not actually gay’

Jeez, how many times had he said that? Repeating it over and over so people never got the wrong impression with him and his flatmate

Now, all of it seemed like wasted effort on his part. Breaths that could’ve been spent muttering praise, telling the madman just how much he loved him, how much he mattered

Gay, not gay, none of it mattered now, he didn’t care if people thought he and Sherlock were shagging, it didn’t affect him one way or the other. It’s not like he could keep a girlfriend long anyways, with out how often Sherlock chased them away, and he wouldn’t have it any other way

Time spent with those women was also time better spent with the detective

Every little thing he’d done over that year and a half that didn’t directly involve the genius was time wasted, precious seconds he could never get back

Never again would he hear the echo of gunshots and know his flatmate was shooting at the walls, never again would he open his fridge to find body parts, never again would he   
come home to a fire truck outside and see Sherlock calling the men in uniform idiots for ‘ruining’ his experiments that brought them there in the first place

The things that used to drive him up the walls, those ended up being the things he missed most

He didn’t know how much longer he could last without his favorite idiot

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in like November of 2013, so it takes place before season 3, and a different kind of reunion because tbh I thought the one given was kinda a copout
> 
> Anyways, it's gonna be angsty and a bit dark, with slightly triggering language in the next few chapters


End file.
